The Lion and the Sheep
by Troph
Summary: Jaime comes to his father with a message and leaves with less assurance. An adaptation of Tywin's introduction from the show.


Jaime Lannister had genuine passion for very few things in life. His sister was, of course, the object of every passion he had. He was hers in body, mind and soul. His sword was another; he polished it with a fervor every night and made sure it was soaked with oil every morning. He supposed Tyrion made that list, though Jaime was never really sure what he felt about his brother, except that he was amusing, admirably quick-witted and generally not a burden. He thought about this as he dismounted his horse outside his father's tent, the bustle of the Lannister camp filling his ears with the noises of clanging metal, arguing men and battle-ready horses. He took a breath before he entered the tent, trying to conjure the same passion for Lord Tywin Lannister and the pride of his house as he did for Cersei, his weapon and Tyrion. It didn't come. All that was there was fear and a desire to please, though Jaime could've never said why.

Within his father's confined personal tent (Tywin Lannister wasted no luxuries on himself), the carcass of a freshly-killed stag lay on a carving station. Lord Tywin was sharpening a butcher's knife against a smooth stone, draped in a heavy leather apron. He must've just killed it himself; his father's pride extended beyond his position of power or wealth in the Seven Kingdoms. He hunted his own meals when he could, cleaned and prepared them himself, unwilling to let the servants even touch his food. It was only due to practicality that he allowed the cooks to handle his food at Casterly Rock.

"Well?" Tywin prompted, his voice like a distant roll of thunder, far enough away to not be a threat, but so powerful that you wouldn't want it anywhere near you. Jaime took the rolled up message from his belt and read it out for his father. The letter was from Eddard Stark, demanding that Lord Tywin show himself before the king's court to answer for the crimes of Gregor Clegane. The letter made Jaime grin; Starks really didn't learn anything. Even if you threw them into the lion's den they insisted on treating them like kittens.

"Poor Ned Stark," he quipped, rolling the message back up. "Brave man, terrible judgement."

Lord Tywin put down the sharpening stone and plunged his knife into the stag's belly, carving along to the end of its backside.

"Attacking him was stupid," he said, matter-of-factly. Jaime shifted, feeling a familiar pang of wounded disappointment. Father's compliments were hard to earn, nearly impossible, but even after decades of knowing this each criticism felt like the stroke of a whip against his heart.

"Lannisters don't act like fools," continued Lord Tywin, reaching into the stag and pulling out its guts with a sickening wet sound. He dropped them to the ground with a splat. Jaime gripped the hilt of his sword tighter at his hip, wanting desperately to defend himself but knowing father would take it as impudence.

"Are you gonna say something clever?" Tywin began pulling back the stag's hide, attacking the barrier where skin met muscle with his blade. "Go on, say something clever."

Jaime's face went red and he felt his guts take another plunge of shame. "Catelyn Stark took my brother," he said plainly.

"Why is he still alive?" His father had nearly cleaned the whole of the stag's right flank, exposing bright pink muscle dripping with blood.

"Tyrion?" Jaime asked. His father would often ask questions like this, as if he was testing his children's ability to assemble and keep up with a half-finished conversation. All you had to do was prompt him with a question and hope Tywin deemed you worthy of clarification.

"Ned Stark," he grunted, tugging at a particularly stubborn bit of hide.

"One of our men interfered," Jaime explained, "speared him through the leg before I could finish him."

"Why is he still alive?" Tywin asked again. Jaime didn't think he would have to explain his actions to his father after all these years. He thought he would've known him well enough by now.

"It wouldn't have been clean," he admitted, wearily. Tywin scoffed.

"Clean. You spend too much time worrying what other people think of you." He gave the hunting knife a quick wipe with a rag, cleaning it of any extraneous guts and flesh.

"I could care _less_ what anyone thinks of me," Jaime assured him, the lie coming easily and yet guiltily from his lips.

"_That's_ what you want people to think of you," Tywin surmised, stripping off another bit of skin.

Jaime's brow furrowed. "It's the truth," he said, trying to inject as much as much confidence into his voice as possible.

Tywin looked unconvinced. "When you hear them whispering 'Kingslayer' behind your back doesn't it bother you?" Jaime felt a stab of resentment pierce his heart and he shuffled his feet. He thought of Aerys lying dead in the throne room, his final act of madness put to an end by his blade. He thought of Ned Stark rushing in and seeing him on the throne, the immediate look of suspicion and impudence on his face. And he thought about how nobody would ever know what he had done for King's Landing. It wasn't just his pride that stopped him, the sense that they should already respect him; it was the fear that nobody would believe the story coming out of the mouth of a Lannister.  
"Of course it bothers me," he admitted. Tywin turned to look him straight in the eye.

"The lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep," he told him, voice dripping with disappointment. He turned back to the stag, but didn't put his blade back to the skin. "I suppose I should be grateful that your vanity o tint he way of your recklessness." Tywin paused and Jaime felt as though he were naked before him, even with the heavy red and gold armor strapped firmly to his body.

"I'm giving you half of our forces," Tywin said at last. "30,000 men. You will bring them to Catelyn Stark's girlhood home and remind her that Lannisters-" he ripped at a piece of hide, "-pay-" it didn't budge, "-their debts." He gave a strong tug and the hid came away with a mighty tearing sound, the flesh squelching as it was stripped of its covering. Jaime felt another stab of resentment; he knew exactly why father was sending him to Riverrun. And it wasn't for the sake of Tyrion.

"I didn't realize you placed such a high value on my brother's life," he said dryly. Tywin scoffed.

"He's a Lannister. He might be the lowest of the Lannisters, but he's one of us." Jaime's sarcasm had gone over his head. Or maybe it hadn't and Tywin just saw another opportunity to lecture his son about Lannister pride. "And every day that he remains a prisoner, the less our name commands respect."

Jaime silently agreed with him, but it wasn't every day he found a whole in his father's logic, an opportunity to dress him down just as he had his children every day of their lives.

"So," he said, pride swelling at catching Tywin's flaw, "the lion _does_ concern himself with the opinions of-"

Tywin whipped around, his arms covered with blood up to the elbow. Chunks of gore and flecks of blood fell from his knife. "NO!" he shouted. The thunderstorm of Lord Tywin had descended and Jaime was standing right in its path. "That's _not_ and opinion, it's a _fact_!" Jaime felt his pride crumble.

"If another House can seize one of our own and hold him captive with impunity, we are no longer a House to be feared." Tywin turned back to the stag. "Your mother's dead," he continued. "Before long, I'll be dead. And you, and your brother, and your sister and all of her children. All of us dead, all of us rotting in the ground. It's the family name that lives on. It's _all_ that lives on. Not your personal glory, not your honor, but family. Do you understand?"

Jaime nodded weakly. He felt five years old again, being drilled by his father for whatever trouble he had caused or test he had failed this time.

Tywin grunted, doubt filling that single sound. He put down the knife, his stag completely freed of its skin, and wiped his hands with a nearby rag.

"You're blessed with abilities that few men possess," he said, shaking his head. "You are blessed to belong to the most powerful family in the kingdoms. And you are still blessed with youth. And what have you done with these blessings, hm?" Jaime didn't answer. "You've served as a glorified bodyguard for two kings – one a madman, the other a drunk." He slapped the rag onto the butcher's table and walked up to Jaime, his sharp eyes boring into his face. Jaime forced himself to meet his father's gaze, even though all he wanted to do was leave the tent.

"The future of our family will be determined in these next few months." Father's voice was low as an earthquake and promised just as much misfortune if Jaime didn't listen. "We could establish a dynasty that will last a thousand years… or we could collapse into nothing, as the Targaryens did." He placed a hand on Jaime's face and Jaime could still feel remnants of wet blood on his fingers. "I need you to become the man you were always meant to be. Not next year. Not tomorrow. _Now_."

Isn't that what I've been trying to do for all these years, Jaime wanted to scream at him. His father had done nothing but groom him since the day he was born and it was worse after his mother died. What could he possibly do to please him now that he hadn't been doing since he was a child. He tried nodding, but he couldn't even do that. What Tywin had asked of him wasn't a request begging to be accepted or dismissed. It was a demand. An order. And orders don't need to be approved of. Only followed.

Tywin stepped away, his hand leaving a cold imprint on Jaime's face, and turned back to the stag, picking up the knife and beginning to carve off bits of flesh. He would cook it now to his liking, roasting it over a fire until it was perfect. And if it wasn't perfect, if it was over- or undercooked even in the slightest, he would toss it on the ground and start again on another piece. He wouldn't even leave it for the dogs; Lannister meat was too good to be left for animals.

Jaime watched him for a moment, feeling the sudden urge to stab him in the back, but he only tightened his grip on his hilt and left the tent. He thought of Tyrion, stuck in a sky-cell. Of Cersei, stuck in King's Landing with Robert. He tried to tell himself that he was doing this for them. But as he mounted his horse and rode to rally the troops, he thought of the thunder of Tywin Lannister chasing him all the way to Riverrun. All he could think was, "I need to outrun that storm."

He kicked his spurs into the sides of his stallion and went to find the Lannister commanders he would lead to war.


End file.
